When Bobby awoke he would settle for nothing less than a short stack of pancakes. He had tossed and turned last night dreaming of the most perfect not-too-sweet not-too-savory combination of pancakes, bacon, lightly browned hash browns, a bowl of strawberries, all topped off with Vermont maple syrup. Grade B, of course.


He crept into the kitchen taking extra care not to make noise. Too much noise would, he decided, disturb the breakfast fantasy and slingshot him back into reality. Each cabinet he gingerly opened yielded no pancake mix. Only a whirl of dust in soft glowing light coming in from the east windows.
Fuck it, he thought, I’ll try again tomorrow.  


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